


I Didn't Say it Was Funny

by TheNavelTreatment



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Fix-It, Gen, Missing Scene, Multi, POV John Watson, Season/Series 03, Sherlock's Violin, brief mentions of drug use, brief mentions of violence, johnlock if you squint, or not it's up to you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 03:06:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1371607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNavelTreatment/pseuds/TheNavelTreatment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like a lot of people, I was extremely unhappy in His Last Vow, when they show John finding out about Mary and than fast forward to him forgiving her at Christmas. What must those months in between have been like? What was going on in John's head as he struggled to process all this new information? I took a shot at finding out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Didn't Say it Was Funny

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to my fantastic beta's allonsys_girl and incredifishface for guiding me through what is officially my first fic!

_WhyiseverythingalwaysmyFAULT!?_

 

(even in his head, John shouts out the last word)

 

_Why isshelike that?_

(she wasn’t supposed to be like that)

_What have I ever done?_

__

_My whole life?_

(addicted to a certain lifestyle)

_What have I ever done?_

__

_What?_

John stares at the darkened ceiling of ~~the extra~~ his bedroom in 221B. He couldn’t tell you how much time has passed since the confrontation in the sitting room (the night Mary shattered his world with the bullet she put in his best friend). Could be days weeks months years centuries; John moves through them as if in a fog. Like when Sherlock was ~~dead~~ gone. Get up, go to work, go to bed. Except now, between work and bed, he goes to the hospital and watches as Sherlock’s chest closes the hole (that Mary put there). He flat out refuses to share the same space as her, so he moves his things back to Baker Street. For a while he was alone and lost and miserable ~~justlikelasttime~~ (how many times will 221B define the borders of his grief)?

But then Sherlock comes home.  This time, the grief remains. No amount of punches thrown in London dining establishments can cure his misery (why is she like that). Sherlock leaves him alone for the most part, though it’s funny to find himself on the receiving end of a forced spoon of soup. Yet he’s insisting that John accompany him to his parents’ for Christmas and that Mary be there too (with his gun - maybe Sherlock thinks Mary isn’t finished). Less than a week away, and John still hasn’t sorted through the carnage in the sitting room of 221B (what have I ever done). So he spends his nights staring at ~~the~~ his ceiling and snatches of Sherlock’s explanation float through his head...

 

**\---  
  
**

_...you’re abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people..._

Every summer, John and Harry went to visit their grandparents in Aberdeen.  It was a win/win - their parents got 6 weeks of peace and quiet, and John and Harry got to live out their winsome wilderness fantasies.  Plenty of room to run and explore and imagine and play.  There was only one place that was forbidden; an old pine tree too far away from the house for their grandparents to keep an eye on them. The branches were evenly spaced and inviting, but Grandpa said they were old and brittle, and got older and weaker the higher up you went. One false move and you would be speeding towards the ground. It was the one place on the whole property that they weren’t allowed to go.

So of course John was drawn to it.

He would take time out of every day, an hour or sometimes more, to stand there. He got into a staring match with an evergreen. He’d stand enthralled until Harry dragged him away.

“Looks fine to me. I bet Grandpa’s just being overprotective,” said John one afternoon when they had run out of games. “Let’s go to the top!” Without waiting for Harry, he ran to the base of tree and grabbed on to the lowest-hanging branches.

“John, stop! He said it was dangerous! John, come back!,” yelled Harry with her hands planted on her hips. When he didn’t listen she shouted, “Fine, break your neck! I’m staying right here.”

John, already halfway up, shouted over his shoulder, “Aww Harry, come on! Don’t be such a girl!”

That was all it took, John knew; disparage her gender and Harry was helpless to refuse. This was confirmed a few seconds later by Harry’s exasperated sigh and the rustling of the tree’s lower branches.

“John HAMISH Watson, you are going to be sorry!”

They climbed in silence for a few moments. Eventually John heard and ignored Harry calling below him.

“John, wait up!”

“John, this branch seems very unstable.”

“John, I don’t think I can go any higher, I’m scared!”

“John, help me!”

“JOHN!”             

It wasn’t until he heard the crack and the thud that John stopped and looked down.

Harry started school that year with a cast and crutches, which were cumbersome and embarrassing and painful no matter how much their parents tried to decorate them. John couldn’t look her in the eye.

That was the beginning of the end of their relationship.

 

**\---  
  
**

_...you were a doctor who went to war..._

Musa Qala, Helmand Province, Afghanistan

8 December 2007, 1430 hours

Half a kilometer outside the city limits

 

War was nowhere near as exciting as people assumed.

John had learned that lesson long ago, when he was first been deployed. But it was always driven home at this point in time; the middle of a battle. When the adrenaline had worn off and he was faced with the challenge of keeping men alive while simultaneously staying hidden from the enemy. When his perspiration was more blood than sweat. Long hours spent under a hot sun, not moving. These were the scenes that hit the cutting room floor in any action movie.

It was the second day of their assault on the town that was both a Taliban stronghold and one of the centers of the opium trade. They had air support, but no amount of bombs from above were enough to replace boots on the ground. They inched forward dodging rounds and watching the terrain for mines .  But Moran hadn’t been quick enough.  He was young, on his first tour, and still eager to live out the video game in  his head.  He had rushed forward, without watching, and had stepped on a mine. From their position, it looked as if it had taken half his leg off, and they were helpless to do anything but watch as his entire life quickly soaked into the sand.

John and Lieutenant Doyle were barricaded behind the hollowed out carcass of a jeep (probably one of NATO’s, John thought bitterly).  There was no other cover between where Moran lay and where they were trapped. They had a front row seat to his anguish. Doyle looked at the pained expression on John’s face.

“John, there’s nothing we can do. We’ve got no backup, no firepower, and no cover. No one expects you to be a hero. If you’re dead before you reach him you won’t be able to do anything.”

John sat there with his jaw set, eyes riveted on Moran’s situation, and fidgeted with the medical kit slung over his shoulder.

“John, I know this is hard as a doctor, to watch and do nothing, but John, you won’t be able to help him...”

( _John, help me!_ )

Without warning, John took off from behind the Jeep. Doyle’s words were drowned out by the gunfire roaring in his ears. He reached Moran and threw himself over the boy as he inspected the wound. Moran looked at him woozily. “J-J-John? I’m scared,” is all he got out before loss of blood made his eyes roll back and his head loll.

“Sebastian? Can you hear me? Sebastian, stay with me. I’m going to get you out of here.”

John tied a tourniquet around the injured leg before he dragged Moran back to the unstable shelter the Jeep provided, where he kept him as lucid as possible until Coalition forces reached them.  

It was a few more years until a bullet through the shoulder placed him permanently on the perimeter.

John had no good explanation for why rushing out to save Sebastian Moran was the most alive he felt during his entire tour of duty.  

 

**  
\---**

 

_Whyiseverythingalwaysmy FAULT!?_

 

**\---  
  
**

 

_...your best friend is a sociopath who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high..._

The morning that John met Charles Augustus Magnussen was the second time he pulled Sherlock Holmes out of a drug den.

The first had been about two weeks after they returned from Dartmoor and chasing down Henry Knight’s hellhound.  Admittedly, it had been a rough two weeks, and John knew it was his fault. It was ridiculous to hold Sherlock to any sort of normal standards of social interaction - he just didn’t think that way - but John was having trouble getting over the fact that Sherlock had drugged him, and induced a state of moral peril, all to test a theory. John always knew he was Sherlock’s test subject, his favorite control group, but was finding it hard to get over when was so consciously aware of the experience. He was spending more time in his room and out walking in the city, trying to put his trust in Sherlock back together again.  Dammit, he just needed time, and if he didn’t leave a mug unattended in Sherlock’s presence until then, so be it.

But Sherlock didn’t understand, and he had always been a bit of a barometer for John’s moods. John also assumed he was still slightly off-kilter from the sudden influx of feelings H.O.U.N.D. brought on.  He started withdrawing, not just from John, but from 221B too. Silence John could handle, immobility on the couch was par for the course, but suddenly Sherlock just wasn’t there.  When he waltzed in with cigarettes (apparently shops in a 3 mile radius had no qualms about selling to him)  John started to get concerned.

When the neon sign outside the bank flashed “DANGER NIGHT JOHN,” he got very concerned.  He walked into 221B determined to have it out and get over it, but Sherlock wasn’t there. He didn’t appear that night either. John fell asleep in his chair and jumped when he heard the creak on the stairs, but was let down when the wrong Holmes walked in.

“I warned you John. I’ve been monitoring my brother’s mental state for the past week, and he has been steadily deteriorating. Why didn’t you get back faster?”

John sighed, “Mycroft, do you have any useful information or are you just here passing the time?”

“Surveillance has picked him up in Brixton, quite close to where you and I first got acquainted...”

Mycroft kept talking, but John’s mind wandered. Brixton? What would Sherlock be doing in Brixton? They hadn’t been there since that first night in Lauriston Gardens, when they found the pink lady in an abandoned house. It had been in the papers; no one had been interested in the property after the incident (apparently “site of a murder scene” doesn’t flow too well on a real estate advert) and the house had remained empty. Of late, it had been taken over by the local drug dealers and people looking to get a fix-SHIT.

John jumped up and raced for the door, shouting, “Thanks Mycroft, I’ll let you know if I need help,” but without so much as a backward glance.  The cab ride was much longer when his whole life wasn’t deduced in front of him and this time there was no well placed barb regarding Donovan’s sex life to temper his anxiety at walking into the building. Huddled along the walls were people in varying states of lucidity. But only one of them was using a thousand-pound Belstaff coat as a mattress.

“Jesus Sherlock, what are you doing here?” John felt for Sherlock’s pulse and checked his pupils, studiously ignoring the fresh marks on his arms. Sherlock’s response was slurred, “Ofcourse I’m h-h-herrre. Whereelse would I be? Thish is where it alllstarted.”

“Hm?”

“...All started with .......John?” Sherlock seemed to realize John was kneeling next to him, “John, no, NO, youcantbehere. It’ll.... ruin...everything.....”

“Shhh, shhh you’ve ruined nothing. It’s my fault for holding a grudge. I’m sorry Sherlock.”

Sherlock kept going as though he hadn’t heard, “I’m trying John....youremy friend. The onlllly one. My one friend, is you.”

He curled up into John’s lap as John stroked his hair. “You’re my friend too, Sherlock. In fact, you’re my best friend.”

This was the first time John had ever vocalized anything about his relationship with Sherlock, and he looked down, expecting some sort of retort.  In response, he heard only snores.

Eventually, John got Sherlock up and aware enough to get him in a cab and back to Baker Street. A few days later, Sherlock was almost back to normal. Neither of them talked about it, but their old air of camaraderie returned to 221B.

Judging by Sherlock’s reaction when John asked him to be his best man, he must not remember any of that night.

 

**\---  
  
**

 

_...the woman you’ve fallen in love with conforms to that pattern..._

__

John vividly recalls the moment he realized he was interested in Mary Morstan; it was when they locked eyes over a struggling, sweaty, 80 kg man.

Mary started at the practice the same week as the first anniversary of Sherlock’s...death. A month after John had finally gone with Mrs. Hudson and put a voice to his plea (one more miracle, Sherlock), and two weeks after he had returned to work. His visit to the cemetery had revitalized him a bit; it felt almost like Sherlock was there (which he was). Sherlock would never forgive John for being so boring when there was so much life going on around him, and John owed it to him to at least make an attempt.  While he was nowhere near whole again, he was tentatively embarking on the journey. A journey that started with going back to work.

Mary arrived as the new nurse a few weeks later. John, whose social skills had gotten a bit stiff during his self-imposed hibernation, talked himself through the interaction in the same way he would have with Sherlock; smile, eye contact (but not too much), firm handshake (but not too long), pleasantries, make a polite excuse, then you’re free. She seemed nice, and enough of Sherlock had rubbed off on him that John could tell she was interested.

John was not.

For several months, she tried somewhat insistently to insinuate herself into his life. There was a time, when he was still at 221B and still alive, when he was desperate for nice; that path led him to Sarah and Jeanette and all the others. But now, when he was alone in a bedsit and everything was so suffocatingly nice, he suddenly found that ‘nice’ repelled him.

Ironically, it was Anderson who brought them together. While Donovan had rolled her eyes and sashayed away from any guilt over Sherlock’s fate, Anderson’s had consumed him. He was obsessed with Sherlock not being dead; his theories ended up taking over his life, and cost him his job at the Yard. Initially he had come to John as a like minded person, but John was barely keeping his head above his own grief and Anderson’s theories were just too convoluted (drug runners and monks? really?). As less and less people listened, Anderson increasingly turned to drink, and John’s caretaker tendencies took control. While he was still insufferable to be around, when he was really a mess, John found himself stepping in to steer him right. John considered it his penance for failing Sherlock so thoroughly.

One afternoon, John got a text from Lestrade: **At a crime scene. Anderson heading your way. Be prepared.**

He had just made it to the waiting room when the man himself flew through the door. Hair a mess, beard scruffy, clothes dirty from where he had fallen in his haste. And he was drunk. Hopelessly, disgustingly drunk. The words coming out of his mouth didn’t help matters.

“JOHN JOHN He’s done it again! He just can’t help himself! He’s in India John, INDIA with ice cream...HE’S IN INDIA.” On the last words he spun around in glee.

John approached him with the care one would an ill-tempered gorilla, “Who's in India, Anderson?”

“Well, Sherlock of course! Sherlock is solving crimes and he thought I’d be too dumb to notice. Well I’m not, I’m paying attention-”

“Anderson, Sherlock is dea-”

“NO!’ With that Anderson swung around and lurched toward John. The patients who remained in the waiting room nervously made for the door, but over Anderson’s shoulder, John could see Mary inching her way around the edge of the room. John gave her a questioning look, but she put her fingers to her lips. He turned back his attention back to Anderson, who was figuring out the logistics of their imminent trip to India, getting more and more manic with each second. All of a sudden Mary launched herself onto his back. John rushed forward to help, but after a few moments of struggle, Mary had administered the tranquilizer into his shoulder. John helped her lower him to the ground, and when their eyes met, he saw a sparkle he recognized. That night they went for coffee.

6 months later they were living together.

A little over a year later Mary put a bullet in his best friend.

 

**\---  
  
**

_WhyiseverythingalwaysmyFAULT!?_

__****  
  


_Everything. Everything you’ve ever done is what you did._

__

_Everything_

__

_you’ve_

_ever_

__

_done_

__

_Everything._

__

_Everything._ The word reverberated in his ears as scenes from his past flashed across ~~his~~ the ceiling. _Everything_. The common denominator in all these situations was him. John; he was the problem (abnormally attracted). Sherlock was right, Mary was right, everyone was right; this was all his fault. His existence was the issue; as long as he was on Earth, he would keep drawing these situations to him like a magnet (addicted to a certain lifestyle). He was hurtling through emotions; despairguiltragebetrayalgriefpainsaddness, miles from the ground as he lies on ~~the~~ his bed. The emotions he never could articulate grasping for a release (I’m not good at this stuff). His thoughts were universes colliding and black holes imploding and there was no way out. How, how could he do this; he was being dragged towards impending doom with no direction and no way back, so utterly lost and alone...

**  
**When suddenly he heard it; notes working themselves up through the floorboards, grounding him in the moment. Sherlock. He had often suspected that Sherlock worked out the proper melody to lull him to sleep when he had nightmares; now it seemed he found the proper soundtrack for a new kind of grief.  He didn’t recognize the melody, though perhaps it was one Sherlock composed himself (waltz for John and Mary). It was as though Sherlock had converted his inner torment to musical form. John listened and gradually the tempest in his mind died down and John felt tears in his eyes. Though he still didn’t know what to do, or what to say, or where to go from here, the violin reminded him of one thing for certain. This time he was not alone.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried really hard to figure out the time line of when John met Mary, but because John's blog is a bit unreliable, I ended up basically guessing.  
> Come say hi on tumblr @ the-navel-treatment (same name, more punctuation)!  
> Why is Sebastian Moran here? Well, we'll just have to wait and see......


End file.
